in the tradition of

i am a descendent of emily dickinson

i write poetry hidden away behind the walls,

under the stars,

above the moons,

and beyond the seas

where no one can ever see me.

i am a descendent in the tradition of emily dickinson.

 

cause i am a descendent in the tradition of emily dickinson.

i am the hermit monk and his chants and incantations.

and the city is a microcosm of whatever ism you’re feeling this season.

and i do prefer the quiet stillness of silence,

of simple thoughts and constantly appreciating nature’s beauty,

for this they’ll label me a dirty hippy,

when i see it much more like returning to original being,

and a much more simple way of living.

i’d much more prefer to sit under a tree with a notebook,

and stare up at the sun towards the horizon just to look

than to be up on a stage

when there are so many more secrets in whispers.

and i just can’t think clearly with all of the screaming and fighting

that goes on in the city,

so i feel much more comfortable

when i just observe and put pen to paper

or fingers make a keystroke.

all performance is a joke if no one pays attention anymore.

 

who is it that artists do it for?

 

i am a descendent in the tradition of emily dickinson,

and i write my words for no one really.

i write my words for those that are barely being born today.

i write my words for those that have yet to be born.

i write my words for tomorrow. i write my words for tomorrow.

i write my words for tomorrow.

i write my words because i feel like i have no other choice.

i am a descendent in the tradition of emily dickinson.

 

who is it that artists do it for?

 

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